


Beer and Tentacles

by Janice_Lester



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 04:08:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6688552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones gets tentacles.  Annoying, irritating tentacles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beer and Tentacles

**Author's Note:**

> Tentacle sex! This fic has been marinating for more than two years. I figured I'd do a quick polish and hope the rough spots don't show too much. Beta'd by [](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/profile)[nix_this](http://nix-this.livejournal.com/).

 

The only thing more irritating than suddenly having tentacles is having them try to help out when you are examining patients. Especially squeamish patients.

Hang on, start again.

The only thing more irritating than suddenly having tentacles is Jim Kirk.

Slightly less irritating than that, but still more irritating than just _having_ the tentacles, is having the tentacles vehemently disagree with a man’s sacred drink preferences.

He wants bourbon, damn it.

Good, old-fashioned bourbon.

Preferably from Kentucky or thereabouts, but since he’s lightyears away from Earth and the bartender here on this far-flung shore-leave world likely can't even _pronounce_ “Kentucky”, he’s not actually being all that choosy just now.

But beer?

Craft beer?

A different one every time?

And do the tentacles really have to stick their little sucker tips in the bottle right in front of everyone? Sometimes, if he’s not careful, into _other people’s glasses_?

Scotty’s due for a piece of his mind when Leonard finally manages to track him down. The supposed head of engineering's been conspicuously silent on all matters regarding transporter malfunctions since Leonard returned from Portia V with extra baggage. He's not an expert, by any means, but while the suddenly acquired tentacles don't seem to pose all that much of a health hazard, they surely aren’t symptomatic of the infernal machine running _right_.

Did he mention that Jim Blasted Kirk finds this all goddamn _hilarious_ , at least when he isn’t squirming away in evident repulsion?

“Y’know,” Leonard tells the aforementioned Engineer when he spots him at a booth in the corner, hands over his latest glass of bourbon-approximation because his damn tentacles seem determined to get him drunk all on their own without the help or cooperation of his mouth, “if you’ve got any inkling how to recreate this little fiasco, in order to supply certain unnamed deserving parties with tentacles of their very own--”

Scotty looks at him. Burps delicately behind a hand. “If I did, I’m thinking now would be a very bad time to tell you about it.” Leonard follows Scotty’s gaze to the far corner, where Jim is guffawing over some joke his four-armed date just told. He turns back, and they share a look. Scotty raises his glass in a toast, then sips. “Not bad, Doc, not bad.”

***

The tentacles can be useful at times, he won’t deny that. All those annoying little procedures where he’d normally have to call Christine or one of the other nurses away from their regular duties to hand him instruments from time to time because he can't safely free up a hand to reach out? Well, his tentacles are pretty good about taking over that function. Of course, standard issue human-type examination gloves don’t fit them so well, but he compensates by repurposing standard issue human-type prophylactics.

In the realm of completely unexpected benefits of accidental tentacle addition, the quartermaster is delighted with him. Apparently his talents are wasted providing uniforms and casual wear and landing party disguises for an endless sequence of officers of fairly standard humanoid configuration. Modifying uniform patterns to accommodate a half-dozen tentacles has been the professional highlight of the man’s career to date (though who knows what stranger things the future may hold on the unerringly trouble-finding _Enterprise_ ). Quite why the highly-trained and respectable Starfleet quartermaster felt the need to go as far as producing one-of-a-kind hand-tooled leather fetishwear to accommodate the said tentacles, Leonard is afraid to ask. He hopes he won’t be expected to provide any feedback on how the, uh, garment performs in actual use.

Some of the issues are dealt with easily enough. For instance, he’s a stomach sleeper, and the tentacles, which are front-mounted, mostly at around groin level, don’t really approve of that. But he won’t be dictated to by unwanted non-sentient features of his anatomy, so he simply threatens them with surgery if they don’t stop complaining, and relative peace is restored thanks to the magic of threatened-separation anxiety.

***

For someone who looks extremely worried the second he catches a glimpse of one of Leonard’s tentacles wandering about, Jim sure does like to talk about the things a lot. The stream of eager questions may in fact be endless, though Leonard sincerely hopes to discover otherwise. As soon as possible, please, Universe. Thank you.

Somewhere in the region of question four hundred and fifty-seven, Jim finally gets down to it:

“So, uh, you know, Bones, it’s occurred to me to wonder how these new appendages of yours might be useful in... intimate contexts.”

“I’m astonished,” Leonard says, and goes to sip his drink. Finds his glass empty but for the ice. Tentacle four does not appear ashamed in the _slightest_ , the bastard.

“Seems like they might be pretty, uh, insertable, if you catch my drift.”

Funny how the kid will talk about his own alleged past exploits in hideous detail at any opportunity, but he gets awkward and roundabout when it comes to this. Is it the novelty of the situation, the fact he truly has no inkling what the answers might be? Or is it that he’s not used to broaching non-bragging sexual topics with, you know, people he actually knows and likes?

Yeah, or perhaps he just thinks that Leonard will yell at him. It’s been known to happen.

“Could be,” he allows. “Haven’t performed any research. You volunteering?” he asks, mostly to see Jim’s face.

Which goes abruptly slack around his bright, bright eyes. Then he blinks and looks away. And back again. “Uh, I, Bones, I...” He shakes himself, literally, like a dog with an itchy ear. “Yeah. Okay. Yes. I volunteer.” His expression is challenging now, almost triumphant. And a little bit...

 _Oh_.

 _Think we might have miscalculated there, Lenny-boy_.

“Let’s go to my cabin,” Jim adds, with an almost-convincing insouciance, “the bed’s bigger.”

Leonard might roll his eyes, but, stars help him, he’s actually finding that invitation rather hard to resist. Probably should have let his tentacles load him up a little heavier on the ol’ craft beer. Then again, perhaps not. He has had the importance of not enabling addicts beaten into him pretty well by years of medical training and practice. And his tentacles are not only addicts but are a damn long way from admitting they have a problem.

 

***

On arrival in the captain’s quarters--during a painfully awkward dance towards the bed--it becomes obvious that Jim expects Leonard to know how to proceed.

He doesn’t.

“Hate to break it to you, kid, but these tentacles didn’t come with any kind of an instruction manual.”

Jim’s grin pops up like one of those annoying drug-company promotions in his medical journals. “Oh, I think we can figure it out, Bones.” He slaps Leonard’s back. “After all, we are trained to seek out new lifeforms and new learning experiences and all that.” He rubs his hands together. “I’ll go get the lube.”

Something about the way Jim’s ass looks as he all-but skips towards the bathroom makes Leonard think that this is either going to be the best night he’s had in a good while, or else something he’s going to regret for a long, long time to come.

Actually, scratch that. No reason it can’t be both.

“Strawberry flavoured!” Jim announces, returning in triumph with an enormous bottle of personal lubricant clutched in his hot little hand.

Leonard figures a round of ironic applause could be misinterpreted as actual encouragement, so he just snorts and sits his ass down so he can take off his boots. Prosaic, but things tend not to go so smoothly if you try to begin in the middle.

Jim seems to have other priorities. Namely, getting his hands and pretty mouth on as much tentacle as he can possibly manage. His lips look oddly pink against the more beige-based tones of tentacle two.

Leonard is pretty ambivalent about the experience of having a tentacle-tip sucked, but to judge from the sudden riot of ecstatic writhing, his tentacles are whole-heartedly in favour. Hedonistic fuckers.

“Mmmm,” Jim says, as he’s letting the lucky tentacle slip free. “Hey, I bet you can make awesome hickies with those sucker-things.” He bats his eyelashes hopefully.

Leonard has a sudden, disconcerting recollection of what it felt like to be fifteen. He shakes it away in irritation. “Before I agree to bruise you up, Jim, I have to know: are you gonna make me get up early in the morning so I can _un-bruise_ you again before your shift?”

“People do that?” Jim frowns, apparently unhappy at the very idea of anyone doing such a thing. “What’s the point of sexy marks if you don’t keep them around for a while?”

Thus reassured of being permitted to sleep in, Leonard finds himself rather more equal to the task of attempting tentacle-enhanced sexual activity. Hey, perhaps he should _write_ that tentacle instruction manual; if Scotty doesn’t get that damned transporter contraption fixed, more innocent crew members are likely to find themselves in need of such a thing. So, then, in the interests of science...

The undressing goes a lot quicker once Leonard starts barking orders. Jim scrambles obediently to get out of his clothes, and Leonard is able to caress him absently with one tentacle tip while he follows suit. Then he sits on the edge of the bed and encourages tentacle number two to wrap itself around Jim’s chest to pull him in while tentacle three coils once, twice, around Jim’s dick, concealing it completely from view except for the fat head, emerging like the tip of the sausage from an ol’ fashioned pig in a blanket.

Jim makes a noise of inarticulate pleasure, his eyes huge and expression rapt as he stares down at his penis, prisoner of a tentacle. Leonard gives a quick squeeze which draws a strangled moan.

 _Probably time to slow this on down,_ he thinks, only to be pushed down onto his back on the bed by the weight of an eager Jim and his marauding tongue. Oh, well. That plan works too. He shifts the bottle of lube digging into his hip, gives Jim a shove to release one or two tentacles crushed between them, and opens his mouth for a quick, deep kiss. Jim groans and wriggles, hands skittering over Leonard's shoulders, chest, arms.

Leonard is just thinking how much better this would be if he were on top when he realises that sneaky bastard tentacle number one has curled over Jim’s hip and is currently nosing its way between his buttocks. The shocked, pleased, choking noise Jim makes when its tip presses at his hole is irresistible. Leonard resolves to repeat the manoeuvre with lube. Which, it turns out, is rather more strawberry-scented than it needs to be. ‘Sophistication’, he reminds himself, is not Jim Kirk’s middle name.

Nor, it would seem, is stamina, he decides, barely two minutes later when the combination of a tentacle undulating around dick and another teasing mercilessly at hole has converted Jim into a sweaty, sticky, panting, ecstatic mess, grinning stupidly down at him.

“Gimme a minute,” Jim says.

Fifty-eight seconds later, he has turned to fall mouth-first on Leonard's dick, while waving his ass in ostentatious invitation.

Leonard begins to feel that this might have been a _good_ idea after all.

***

A mere five long weeks later, and Scotty thinks he’s found a way to reverse the tentacle-acquisition process.

Spock says he trusts him. So does the Starfleet Engineering Corps, having reviewed the research. (Then again, wasn’t it Starfleet Engineering that approved the Scottish maniac as one of its representatives in the first place?)

Starfleet Medical “strongly recommends” counselling to help Leonard properly consider the potential risks and benefits of undergoing the experimental procedure, and, while he would _like_ to think that their concern is for his safety and future utility (better a competent ship’s surgeon living with benign tentacles than one who bought the farm having the things removed, right?), the cynic in him suspects they’re more worried about losing the unique and interesting guinea pig he currently represents. And that cynic voice is awful loud these days.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Jim says, and places a loud kiss on the tip of tentacle number one (Tentacle Fred, to his friends). “And you,” he tells Tentacle Sally. “And you,” he tells Jane. “And--”

Leonard can tell it’s going to be a long night.

***

As he’s going into the transporter room to be de-appendaged, Leonard’s tentacles almost pull his legs out from under him by grabbing onto the doorframe and holding on for dear life.

Now, whether that’s an expression of his own subconscious doubt or yet another sign that the damn things have minds of their own, it’s more than enough to give him pause.

He glances at the transporter pad, site of so many bizarre misfortunes over the years, then down at his groin where his tentacles are twitching with the effort of maintaining their muscular grip on the door.

It’s not like this removal decision is actually _urgent_ , is it? And getting them removed _is_ something he could find himself regretting for a long time. So perhaps he’ll take some more time to think about it.

Yeah.

He’ll just go, uh, think about that someplace. Perhaps over a nice glass of that craft beer with the banshee on the label.

As Leonard’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at that thought, he’s almost certain he hears Tentacle Fred snicker.

***END***


End file.
